


I Already Know (On With the Show)

by queenklu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Companion Piece, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x22 Coda, Sam's POV</p><p> </p><p>There are two certainties in the life of Sam Winchester: The sky is blue, and Sam loves his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Already Know (On With the Show)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Erase the Dream (Rewrite the Scene)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/117176) by [queenklu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu). 



> Title from The Fields by Adam Lambert, cut text by Del Amitri.

_so everything is settled or so we do pretend  
from a beautiful beginning, babe, to a muted kind of end  
_ _-It's Never Too Late to Be Alone, Del Amitri_

 

 

There are two certainties in the life of Sam Winchester:

 

The sky is blue, and Sam loves his brother.

 

~*~

 

He thought the gut-punch he felt every time he saw the three of them walking together—Ben’s tiny hand clasped in Dean’s rough, scarred fingers, Lisa’s arm looped under his leather jacket—he thought it might be jealousy. He told himself it was. Dean got the life Sam always wanted, _two point five kids and a little McMansion…_ or close near enough.

 

Maybe it was just shock, PTSD, but after all they’d been through Sam thought he should have been able to see this coming.

 

Sam didn’t know why he was here.

 

~*~

 

He liked the feel of flour on his hands, the easy roll of dough as he worked, the simple math of eggs plus sugar plus chocolate equals something sweet and tangible. Dean brought Ben by sometimes after baseball practice for a treat, and he showed up every morning for coffee before walking down the street to the garage. They talked about stupid things, dumb things they’d never talked about before, like _Hey did you catch the game?_ and _What kind of crack is_ Heroes _on?_ Stuff Dean would never talk about with his brother if he knew.

 

Sam’s hair was cut short, spiked and bleached, same color as the goatee he’d grown to obscure his jaw line. The makeup was a bitch—cover-up to hide the moles, thick mascara and smudged eyeliner, and his face always ached with the pinch of magnets holding his piercings in place (the lip-stud especially)—all of it topped off with a witch’s talisman on a thin gold chain to guarantee against recognition; he wasn’t taking any chances, not with this. But it was worth it. It was all worth it to be a part of Dean’s life, even on the periphery. He told himself it was worth it.

 

After a couple months Dean’s questions got more personal, and Dean’s color started coming back around the edges. _Hey is your landlord any less of a creeper?_ turned into _Hey you wanna catch the game with some guys from work?_ turned into _Hey you seeing anyone yet?_

 

Sometimes Sam pretended it was a come-on, and he’d lean over the flour-dusted counter with his ragged sleeves hiked to his elbows and bat his lashes at his brother, ask, “Why, you offering?” in a slow mocking drawl that made Dean pull a face.

 

“Seriously, Prior,” Dean said then, always a little quieter with Prior than with Sam, like he still wasn’t sure if this was the way people made friends without something supernatural shoving them together. “You should get out there. Never see you around town.”

 

“Oh, I’m around, alright,” Sam would answer in his practiced smoker’s rasp, “Maybe not in the part of town _you_ are, tame little family man like yourself…”

 

And Dean would smile but it wasn’t the same, and Sam felt starved for Dean, skin-hungry, like someone hacked off his conjoined twin and left Sam to bleed out in their cradle.

 

Today he said, “Yeah, got a date tonight, in fact. Know how worried you were about me fitting in with this one horse town.” And Dean’s eyes blinked wide.

 

~*~

 

Prior drives a beat up 1980 Chevy Love, rust orange from more than just paint. Prior listens to heavy metal where the screams melt into something like music. Prior is undamaged. Prior is confident, long limbs and sex when he wants to be. Prior is hetero-flexible.

 

“ _God,_ Prior—”

 

Prior fucks like a demon, and doesn’t know what that means.

 

Sam ducked his head and licked, dry rasp of his tongue over a precome-slick crown, and the little twink squirmed, gasping, struggling just to know he was solidly caught in Sam’s grasp. He still had smudges of oil on his hands, but Sam’s cock was working to fix that, thrusting in the circle of his fist.

 

“Oh god,” the twink— _David,_ Sam’s brain whispered, _His jumpsuit says David—_ gasped, high-pitched and needy as he tucked his face against Sam’s shoulder where the muscle was getting softer with disuse, “Smell so good, Prior, you smell like _pie_.”

 

 _Like Dean_ , his mind screamed, only Dean didn’t smell like pie, Dean smelled like grease and dirt and sweat and blood and leather and metal and family and home and—

 

Sam smelled like something Dean wanted, something Dean loved.

 

Sam got David off and went home, aching down to his gut.

 

~*~

 

He’d given Dean a tick-list in that promise. Dean probably had it tattooed on the inside of his skull—Lisa, check. Barbeques, check. Football games, check. Normal, apple pie life…

 

Dean went to all of Ben’s Little League practices, all of his games, took him to the movies and ran him ragged on the playground. When parent-teacher conferences rolled around Dean looked like he was going to pass out the whole day, but he went. Sam was already in the local watering hole when he came in that night, sagged against the bar by Sam’s elbow, ran a shaking hand through his hair.

 

“I’m so not _qualified_ for this,” Dean whispered, like he was in a confessional.

 

“Hey.” Sam had to stop and get a grip on his tone, turn it into the voice of someone who hadn’t been raised as better than could honestly be expected under some really wretched circumstances by this guy. “You’re doing fine.”

 

Dean ordered a beer before he answered, palming the condensation as he talked to the foam. “Yeah, I don’t think I am.”

 

And Prior—because how the hell would he know Dean’s history?—Prior gave Dean a rambling speech about how no one ever said raising a kid was easy and there was Dean jumping in the middle like that yadda yadda yadda, and Sam watched as Dean didn’t take in a single word, piecing himself back together one vertebra at a time until he challenged Prior to a game of darts that Sam threw.

 

It made Sam breathless sick, watching Dean fight so hard to keep his promise. But what the hell else was he supposed to have done? Dean would have killed himself trying to get Sam out of that hole. So it was merciless, and it was selfish and cruel, but Sam had played the strongest card he had to keep Dean aboveground.

 

One day the Winchesters were going to have to learn that dead meant dead. Not that Sam saw it in his future any time soon, considering his miraculous unexplained appearance topside, but Dean. Dean was different. Dean had a chance.

 

If Sam was any kind of decent human being, he would leave. Fuck, if Sam was any kind of decent he’d have stayed away.

 

~*~

 

“The hell’s gonna make me coffee now?”

 

Sam kept his eyes on the counter as he laughed. “I’m sure Bert knows where the on-switch is.”

 

“So not the point,” Dean waved away, and it was so— _pre-hell_ it made Sam’s head snap up against his will. Dean was frowning at him, muted concern and confusion in the lines of his face. “I just—I don’t get it. You just moved here.”

 

“I’m not leaving, man,” Sam sighed, guilt lead-heavy in his gut as he…fuck, he didn’t even know if he was lying. He felt giddy-stupid, terrified—the first time allowed on a hunt and the first time he’d run away all rolled into one. High on too little sleep and Dean’s attention, on the surety of being wanted (missed) somewhere, even if it wasn’t anything like before. “It’s just a road trip. I like to get a feel for the state I’m living in.”

 

Dean gave him a look, and Sam braced himself for Indiana In a Nutshell a la Winchester.

 

“This is all very out of the blue for me,” Dean said finally, flippantly, mockingly aloof, “I’m not sure how I feel about you violating my trust like this.”

 

Sam smirked. “Aw, don’t sweat it buttercup, tampons and Midol in the ladies’ room.”

 

“Bitch!” Dean gasped, shocked but kind of proud, like he had any right or reason to be proud or use that word. And Sam had to watch the color drain out of Dean’s face without moving an inch.

 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Sam forced out, barely, “must be this tall to ride.”

 

“Haha,” Dean said after his throat worked a couple times, eyes anywhere else as he backed toward the exit, “You’ve got my number, right? For when that hunk of junk bursts into flames on the side of the road and you need someone to go save your ass?”

 

If Dean sounded disappointed by Prior’s response, Sam thought he could go fuck himself.

 

~*~

 

The flickering yellow motel light laughed at him until he shut it off (it was just shit wiring; his luck) but the TV worked fine. Sam showered until his eyes felt raw, folded his too-long limbs close to his chest and wedged between the beds, unwilling to choose, unwilling to _fucking examine_ why he’d gotten two queens.

 

 _“You gave me these emotions, but you didn't tell me how to use them,”_ Frankenstein’s monster rasped, television sound tinny in the darkness, “ _Why?”_

Kenneth Branagh, that god damn arrogant pig, moaned, _“There was something at work in my soul which I do not understand.”_

 

“Tell it to Emma Thompson,” Sam muttered, twisting his fingers in the leather chord of Dean’s amulet. “There was something at work in your pants.”

 

He drank a shot for the monster on TV, then ten more for the only other monster in the room.

 

~*~

 

The Chevy Love broke down on a stretch of nameless road thick with trees and blue mountain light. She just…up and quit, rolling quietly onto a shoulder big enough to camp in, so Sam did. He sprawled out in the truck bed, metal slats digging into his back, ratty blanket the last owner had kept stuffed under one of the seats bunched under Sam’s head. His nails chipped at the paint, idly tracing devils traps and sigils.

 

Maybe this could be his Impala, one day. Maybe his kids would stuff legos in the air vents and toy soldiers in the ashtrays and get laid right here in the back. Maybe they’d curl up together on long drives and sleep and fight and play and cry and bleed and laugh into the upholstery. Or maybe he could do all that himself, make himself a home in this crumbling vehicle and rust with it into nothing.

 

Certain poetic justice that his new home was broken.

 

Dean picked up on the first ring.

 

~*~

 

“Yo. Wake up, starshine, figured out what’s wrong with the Love.”

 

Sam grunted and shoved up on his elbows, squinting through his shades. Dean had a hand wrapped around the sole of his boot where he’d shaken him awake, and Sam kicked free before he could press into the touch.

 

“Aint nothin’ wrong with the _love_ ,” he grumbled because he was expected to, scrubbing a hand over his face.

 

“Yeah, yeah, if love was your problem you’d drive a better car.”

 

“What, you mean like yours?” Easy. Like hunting. Back and forth, bob and weave. And god, every time they did it felt like a shot of tequila to a recovering alcoholic. “You know, following your logic—“

 

“Hey, hey, now,” Dean said, “lay off my logic.”

 

“So?” Sam asked, bruising the back of his thighs hopping down from the truck bed. His hand trapped Dean’s amulet in his pocket just to make sure it was there. “What’s wrong with the Love?”

 

Dean rubbed his oil-stained hands on a rag Sam recognized from the Impala’s trunk—probably empty, now, or stuffed with the normal things people kept in their car—and he sighed at Sam’s bared engine. “It’s fucked.”

 

“The Love is fucked?”

 

“The Love is _fucked._ ”

 

Sam ran a hand over the grill, right in front of Dean and the Impala, and felt like he was cheating. “Maybe she just needs to know I’ll still respect her in the morning.”

 

“I think she’s gonna go looking for love in the arms of Happy Hooker Tow Trucks,” Dean said, and fished the card from his wallet for Sam to dial. “Just give them the details and I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

 

 _No._

 

“You didn’t get too far on this road trip, you know,” Dean said, almost casual, and Sam was right back in that place where every breath Dean took made him want to punch something, tear his hair out, scream himself hoarse from coming so hard.

 

“Wasn’t a road trip,” he said eventually. “It was a funeral.”

 

Just another thing that wouldn’t stay dead and buried.

 

~*~

 

Sam was going to be sick if he had to sit in the passenger’s seat, but there was no reason for Prior to have a problem with it. He kept his shades on and made a big show of trying to get comfortable, like his bones hadn’t grown to fit this seat.

 

Dean rolled his eyes, flipping through the tape box. “Come on, dude, bigger guys than you have squirmed less.”

 

“You go cruising with guys my size often?” Sam shot back, trying to hide how bad his insides were quivering with the sights and smells and textures of—Christ, he wasn’t going to survive the drive back.

 

“Not for a while,” Dean said, and Sam’s stomach felt like it was bloated, ready to split in the heat.

 

“Oh yeah?” he heard Prior ask, “What happened? Bite off a little more than you could chew?”

 

“Lisa happened, dipshit,” Dean shot back, easy as hunting, like it wasn’t a flat out lie.

 

Maybe it wasn’t.

 

“And anyway,” Dean said, eyes back to scanning the road, “it’s not what you think.”

 

“Hardly ever is,” Sam muttered, pad of his thumb digging into tiny brass horns.

 

~*~

 

It was Sunday, and Lisa was throwing a barbeque for all the little league parents from Ben’s team. It sounded like absolute hell to Sam, so of course—

 

“Shut up, you’re going. We’ll swing by the bakery to let Bert know you’re back—“

 

“Bullshit, you just want pie.”

 

“You know me so well, grasshopper. Hey, I’ll even let you pick.”

 

 _Prior doesn’t know a fucking thing about you._ _He doesn’t know that pecans make you gassy for days or that cherry is your favorite but only if it’s made from scratch with the crumbly crust or—or—_

 

He got blindsided. Stupid. _Fucking_ stupid. But there it was, etched into the space before his eyeballs—Dean, hungry and kiss-flushed, licking past the lip stud into Prior’s mouth. To taste the pie.  

 

Oh…no.

 

Sam went to the barbeque with the knowledge clenching fists in his intestines; he was going to steal a car, and he was going to leave. Tonight. Because it was just barely enough to stop him when he was Dean’s brother, and now he _wasn’t_.

 

Just as soon as he could get free of Dean he’d be gone. And as soon as he found a bridge—

 

“Hey, babe,” Lisa said the instant they stepped through the back door onto the lawn. She gave Dean a quick peck on the cheek, and something in Sam’s gut loosened, like the last grip he had on his stomach rolling when Lisa took Dean in with a smile. “Hey, someone’s in a good mood. This must be Prior, right?”

 

“Yes, er, yeah.” He hadn’t been expecting to shake hands, hadn’t figured on being introduced to her twice. Plus—what did she mean Dean was in a good mood? This was…pretty low key, for Dean. “And you’re Lisa.”

 

“That’s me. I gotta tell you, Dean’s been going crazy without your coffee in the mornings.”

 

“Yeah, well, Bert doesn’t make it right.” Dean scowled, sun overhead turning his cheekbones pink. “You said he’d been trained.”

 

 _Bert doesn’t slip in soy milk when you’re not looking_. Sam arranged his shoulders into a shrug. “What can I tell you, man, it’s a gift. Speaking of which, pie’s on me.”

 

It was cherry from scratch with the crumbly crust, and the absolute last thing he could do for his brother. “Wow,” Dean said when he pried back the lid, “It’s like you know me too well.”

 

Ben came out of nowhere to wrap around Dean’s legs, scrambling to get away from a couple other rugrats playing tag, and Sam thought— _There._ Pie, girl, kid. Perfect tableau.

 

It was time to go.

 

~*~

 

“Hey, hold up!”

 

Sam had always liked Lisa—he wouldn’t have told Dean to make it work with some harpy—but…he had never wanted to talk to anyone less at this moment.

 

She touched his arm, dark eyes concerned. “You taking off already?”

 

“Yeah. No. Yeah, a little.” A little? He’d stayed as long as he could stand it—he could only play tag so long with Dean’s kid before he’d just sit down on the grass and cry.

 

“Look,” she said with a half smile Sam almost recognized. “Can we talk for a second?”

 

“Um. Sure.” Sam caught himself hunching his shoulders and forced them back down. Prior didn’t hide.

 

Lisa led him over to a quieter part of the lawn, away from where Dean was learning how to barbeque through trial and error and teasing jibes from the other dads. “I just want you to know,” Lisa started, and Sam snapped his gaze back on her in time to catch the wry twist of her mouth. Oh Christ, if she was going to tell him to back off her man he might just get hysteric. “I’m really glad Dean’s got you for a friend,” she said instead, bone-meltingly genuine, “I just want you to know—I don’t know, maybe he’s talked with you about this stuff, but being Dean I’m kind of guessing not. He had a _really_ rough time of it last year. Last bunch of years, I guess.” She was studying him, brown eyes kind and kind of sad. “I think—I think you’re good for him. I think you remind him of someone he lost.”

 

Oh _fuck_.

 

The part of him always attuned to his brother sent up warning bells, and his eyes found Ben running up to Dean with something looped around his hand, “Dean, Dean, you dropped this!” tumbling out of his sugar-hyper mouth.

 

Sam’s hand dropped to his (empty) pocket.

 

Fuck and _shit._

 

“I’ve gotta run,” Sam fumbled out, gaze hopelessly locked on Dean’s face as his brother turned white. “It was, uh, nice talking to—“

 

He gave up and left as fast as his shaking legs would take him.

 

~*~

 

Sam didn’t need much—god, he didn’t need _anything_. Can’t take it with you. Maybe this time death would actually stick.

 

Which didn’t explain why he was in his shitty apartment tearing through his things.

 

 _What the hell am I looking for?_ And then, _Why the hell am I breaking things?_ He didn’t ask himself either question too hard, throat aching with the need to cry or heave.

 

He snapped his death metal CDs like tinder, tore up half his closet, kicked and punched holes in his dry wall.

 

 _Why am I not leaving? Why am I here?_

 

The only thing he would’ve taken with him was the amulet. Which Dean now had.

 

 _The love is fucked._

 

He found a bottle of Jack and drank a fifth in one gulp. The burn tore through the knot in his throat, dry heaving sobs knocked loose from his chest.

 

 _I just lost my brother._

 

~*~

 

No one was more surprised than Sam when he showed up for work the next morning. Bert took one look at him and tried to make him take the day, but Sam just shook his head and went to the back to knead dough.

 

He couldn’t even tell himself he wasn’t listening for the bell above the front door to announce Dean’s voice. Every time he moved the witch’s talisman slid against his skin, rubbing it raw.

 

But it got past 10:30, and Dean hadn’t come in. Part of Sam—the dumb part—wanted to worry about what that meant, if Dean was okay, if he was falling apart in Lisa’s arms or reaching for that shotgun, but the rest of him knew there had been mornings when Dean couldn’t make it in for coffee before work. Hell, maybe Dean was pissed at him for ditching early. _Maybe Dean has other things to worry about besides you_.

 

At 1:56 Sam turned around to put bread in the oven and Dean was there, propping up the back door with his hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket.

 

“Hey,” Dean said, voice rough as road grit, “You look like shit.” Deep, dark circles hung under his eyes, and he was pale enough Sam could see lines he hadn’t even known were there.

 

“Ditto,” Sam managed after a moment, after he’d turned the oven timer on.

 

“My brother’s dead.” Dean shrugged, shoulders pulling leather to bare his throat and a sharp glint of brass. “What’s your excuse?”   

 

Sam sucked in a breath that burned his lungs and turned his perfectly planned excuses into ash. He couldn’t—his eyes ached with staring at where Dean’s amulet was hooked on the cotton of his t-shirt. And he waited too long.

 

“Nice necklace,” he got out, just above inaudible.

 

“You like it?” Dean’s arm moved, and it was just proof how long Sam had been out of the game that he hadn’t even _seen the fucking gun_ until it was aimed at his chest. His faulty heart went numb, and Dean’s mouth twisted in a dead smile. “’Cause I’m really digging your own bling there, Prior. Let me guess—Macy’s?”

 

And Sam thought, _Maybe I couldn’t kill myself because Dean was supposed to do it. Dean was always supposed to do it._

 

~*~

 

Dean knew a field. Of course Dean knew a field. Sam remembered his tick-list hadn’t included No More Hunting for a reason, but he hadn’t expected the reason to be this.

 

He kept his gun on Sam the whole way, tucked under his right arm and pointed straight at Sam’s belly. Gutshot, he’d bleed all over the upholstery (try explaining that to Ben), so Sam didn’t bother dredging up any panic until they stopped the car. If this was his last few moments breathing in home, breathing in Dean, then he was going to savor it.

 

“Out of the car.”

 

 _Yes, sir,_ Sam’s mind answered, and he waited for his blood to pound, hands to sweat, vision to narrow. His heartbeat was barely running above warm, light excitement like a birthday party. Or Christmas morning.

 

“Okay, now,” Dean said, voice tight, “take it off.”

 

 _There_ was the pulse-spike, but it was all wrong. Then Sam dragged his mind out of the gutter to realize what Dean meant, and he shifted back a step, heart thudding painfully but still painfully slow. “No.”

 

Dean’s eyes darted to the side, then rolled back to Sam. “I’ve got a gun on you.”

 

Dean wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger if he knew. And then— _god damn it,_ then what? Dean pulls the talisman off Prior’s lifeless body and—

 

He’d known that. He must have known that. God, why was he still _here?_

 

“Sorry,” Sam said, holding up his shaking, flour-dusty hands. “Sorry, this—this was a mistake. I’ll be out of—I’ll be gone by—“

 

“Did you leave this?” The gun barrel tapped against the amulet with a faint click of metal that Sam felt in his bones. “Huh? ‘Cause Ben says he found it over where you two were running around.” Dean’s eyes were so dead it made him ache, but at the mention of Ben Sam caught a glint that would have sent him into cardiac arrest if he’d meant the kid harm.

 

“I…I’ve never seen—“

 

The gun cocked. “Don’t you fucking lie to me. Is this some sort of _joke_ to you?” He was shouting by the end, empty hand locking around the amulet to pull it free. “Is this even the real fucking _thing?_ ”

 

“You know it is,” Sam said, words punched from him as he waited for Dean to drop it. No motel trash cans out here. Maybe Dean would throw it into the trees.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he grit out like it hurt to say, and raised his gun again. “How the hell do you?”

 

“Dean.” He had his palms out, hands down, and his fake voice slipped into nothing. “Please. Don’t do this. I’ll be gone. I’ll get gone, I promise this time. Please.”

 

Dean jerked forward a step, white knuckled on the Colt—yeah, of course it was the Colt—and his amulet, biting out, “I don’t understand why you aren’t gone _already._ ”

 

Sam had known it was bad staying, but he hadn’t realized how much until he saw yet another betrayal settle in Dean’s features.

 

“I just—“ The words were drifting up from nowhere, someplace carved out and hollow without Lucifer or demon blood or psychic powers, the bottomless pit now overflowing with his fierce, desperate, unhealthy, codependent, pure and joyful love for Dean. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

 

Dean was still, but not rigid. His gun arm faltered and dropped, and he just looked tired, so bone weary exhausted with living, and he asked like he would have given the world not to. “Sam?”

 

“No, D—“ His name came out as nothing more than a puff of air. “No.”

 

But Dean was already striding for him, dropping the Colt to haul back and slam his fist into Sam’s jaw. “You son of a bitch. You son of a _bitch_.”

 

The second time he hit him Sam almost fell, and Dean caught him, almost a hug, before he wrapped his swelling knuckles in the gold chain of Sam’s talisman and broke it with one harsh yank. Sam jerked back with a hiss, hand flying to his bleeding skin, but Dean didn’t let him get away.

 

“You _stupid, fucking—_ I could kill you,” Dean snarled, tears running freely down his cheeks as he reached up to palm Sam’s, pinch of metal from both charms digging into his bearded skin. “What the hell did you do to your face?”

 

And Sam ducked down to kiss him. Last line of defense.

 

~*~

 

Sam was back in his damaged apartment, sweeping bits of plaster and CDs into a dust pan in a last ditch attempt to get some money back on his deposit. Not that he needed the money where he was going, or gave a shit what his creepy landlord did either way—he just needed something to do with his hands.

 

“Do you actually need any of this?” Dean grumbled as he stepped back inside, swiping at the dust clinging to his shirt. “There’s like, what? Bedding? Dude, I have bedding.” His eyebrows arched, letting Sam know exactly what they’d be doing on his bedding, just in case he had any doubts.

 

“It looks weird if I move out and just leave it all here.” Sam said screw it to the broom and went to his brother, hefting up the last of the (really small number of) boxes. “Plus the guest room needs ‘ _bedding,’_ Martha Stewart, otherwise people aren’t gonna buy that I’m just your roommate.”

 

He nudged Dean’s shoulder with his own, and caught one of those just-for-Sammy smiles that had warmed him belly first since…as long as he could remember.

 

“Lisa wants us over for burgers on Sunday, you game?”

 

Sam shifted just to make sure his talisman was still around his neck, and sighed. Because Lisa was one in a million, yeah, but it didn’t mean she’d be onboard with incest. ‘Course it helped that she’d been trying to steer Dean towards Prior for the last month, ever since he’d moved out and got his own place (without breathing a word to Sam, of course).

 

Still. It was still hard to wrap his mind around barbeques and football games and apple pie life when it had stopped feeling like a possibility six years ago.

 

“Sure thing,” Sam said, tone set to get under Dean’s skin  as he followed his brother down the stairs, “Nothing I like more than chumming with my boyfriend’s ex.”

 

“Aww, you said boyfriend. Such a little bitch.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Come here,” Dean said suddenly, sounding strangely breathless and not in a fun way. Sam dropped the box without a second thought and wrapped around him from head to toe, crushing him in a hug just as tight as the one he was getting.

 

“This is such a chick flick moment,” Sam murmured, and didn’t make a single move towards letting go. Dean’s laugh was shaky, but there. “Hey, I was thinking.”

 

“Never a good sign.”

 

“Shut up,” Sam said as they broke apart, staying real close. “There’s gotta be something we can do to tweak this, right?” He tugged his talisman.

 

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Tweak?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam’s grin was so wide it ached, but it was the best kind. “So you can see me, when no one else can.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said on an unsteady exhale. “I’ll call Bobby in the morning.”

 

~*~

 

There are few certainties in the lives of the brothers Winchester:

 

The sky is blue, and white and gold and red and orange, and Sam loves his brother.

 

The grass is green, and yellow and brown and sometimes black in the ashes of a fire, and Dean loves him back.  
 

The End

(There's now a companion piece to this, [Erase the Dream (Rewrite the Scene)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/117176) Enjoy!)


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